


Five Times Cecil Didn't Stay With That Very Attractive Scientist, And One Time He Did.

by Scriblit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, [Best Of...?] spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:43:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriblit/pseuds/Scriblit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his trip to Europe, Cecil got a little lost and ended up spending rather more time travelling around the place than he'd anticipated. However, while he was out there, he got to meet a lot of very interesting and extremely attractive scientists. Many of them he got to know quite intimately. None of them were quite right for him, though. Would he ever find that one, special scientist that he could call his one true scientist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One - The Fire Maker

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Mathilda's fault. Spoilers for episodes up to and including [Best of...?]

A strange man came to her settlement one day. He looked… strange. His garments were strange. The large pack he wore strapped to his back was strange. He spoke strangely, of strange things. When he arrived at the settlement, he hefted the pack to the ground, raised up his arms and cried ‘Hello Europe!’  
She did not know what a Europe was supposed to be.

After a moment, the stranger lowered his arms, and took a good look at his surroundings and sighed and said ‘Ohhh. You know what? I must have taken a wrong turn or something. I didn’t mean to travel quite this far.’ Then he laughed a little. ‘Boy, I really am a long way from where I meant to get to. Looks like I’m going to have to get back via the scenic route. Say, mind if I stay here awhile? I can pay. In… uh… stories? I’m a pretty good storyteller.’ The tribe murmured amongst themselves. They liked storytelling. The stranger grinned. ‘Also I have yams.’ 

He pulled a couple of tuber roots from his pack, which caused considerable excitement amongst the tribe. Roots were good. Especially now that she had found fire.

The stranger watched her as she struck the flint that special way she’d discovered would create a spark, and fed it to the dry grass and twigs, and breathed it in to bright, hot, dancing life.

‘Neat,’ said the stranger in awe. ‘Did somebody teach you how to do that, or…?’

She shook her head, and explained how she’d noticed the spark while making tools, and worked out how to harness it – not so small that it would be no use, not so big that it would rampage and destroy. He began to look at her intently. She’d seen that look on some of the men before. Usually it meant that she was going to have to fight one of them. Carefully, so that he wouldn’t notice anything was amiss, she took hold of the end of one of the larger sticks in the fire, as if trying to position it better within the fire, but in fact grasping so that she could pull it free and use it against him if he attacked.

‘Uh…’ said the stranger. ‘Uhhhh… BIRD! BIRD!’

She looked up to where he was pointing in a panic as a large bird swooped down, trying to steal the meat that she was about to put on the fire with the roots. She pulled the burning stick from the fire and swiped it at the bird.

‘I just think that you aught to know…’ shouted the stranger as he darted behind a rock, out of the way of the flailing fiery stick and the angry, hungry bird ‘…that I currently feel incredibly conflicted about how attractive you are to me at this moment…’ a final jab caused the bird to give up and fly away, screeching its complaint. ‘…I mean, not just because you’re saving me from a bird with a flaming branch, even though that’s also completely hot, in all senses of the word…’

She turned to him, still brandishing the stick.

‘I love your mind,’ he explained, keeping his distance. ‘A scientific mind is so attractive. But when I try to picture something physical with you…? There’s just something off. You’re a woman, a hot, hot, smart scientific woman. But, see… the way I feel about women… it just isn’t…’

‘You don’t like to lie with women?’

‘No.’ The stranger looked awkward. ‘But if I did, you would definitely be the girl for me.’

‘No I would not.’ She smiled at him. ‘I do like to lie with women.’

‘Oh! Cool! I mean, I’m sorry if I made you feel weird at all, but I feel a little bit weird about this and goodness knows I’m used to weird I suppose, but… OK. Cool.’

They squatted down by the fire again. She returned the stick to it, and put the food on the fire. They maintained an uncomfortable silence until the food was cooked. The stranger ate with the tribe, and told them a story that made no sense to any of them. He slept the night by the fire.

The next morning, the stranger went over to her.

‘Hey just to let you know – nothing personal or anything, but this is still a bit weird. Sorry about making it weird.’

She just stared at him. He was a very strange man.

‘Soooooo…’ he continued, ‘I’m taking off. I wanted to go around Europe, and I’m pretty sure this isn’t Europe, so that’s my first task, I guess.’ He adjusted the balance of weight of the pack on his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, I can hike it. It’s not as if I’m in any hurry, given how far I’m managed to go the wrong way.’

She still just stared.

‘Goodbye, Prehistoric Settlement!’ he cried, walking off. ‘Goodbye!’

Within three days, she was sure that the whole thing had just been a dream. None of the rest of the tribe could remember him at all. It would make sense that she’d dreamed it all, she reasoned to herself, since the more she thought about it, the more she realised that he hadn’t been speaking to her in her language at all.


	2. Two - Archimedes

Today, thought Archimedes of Syracuse to himself, as he grasped the shoulders of the strange young man beneath him and pounded himself to the edge, could not really have gone much better for him. He loved showing off his inventions at the best of times – especially to delightful, enthusiastic young men, but when young men such as this strange, lovely traveller reacted to his genius by flushing brightly, responding very receptively to his advances and finally kissing him passionately, demanding that he ‘take him roughly over the screw pump’, well, that was his idea of a perfect day. With a happy grunt, he spilled his seed into the hot tightness between the stranger’s clenched thighs, parting the young man’s knees as soon as he was done to appreciate the wet sticky whiteness he had painted over the inside of the man’s legs. He took his sighing partner in hand, stroking his length and fondling his testicles until the traveller too came with a cry (odd, Archimedes felt later, that the man shouted out ‘Science!’ while in the throes of orgasm), so that the young man was plastered very pleasingly from belly to thigh with their semen. Archimedes drank in the sight for a moment, then went to fetch a basin of water and a rag.

‘I apologise,’ he said as he began mopping up the mess on the man’s legs, ‘that I couldn’t make love to you actually physically on the screw pump. But it’s very delicate machinery, you see…’

‘I understand,’ replied the man. ‘Science is more important than all of us. I’m very in to Science.’

‘I can tell.’ Archimedes smirked. ‘You know, if you wanted, you could stay a while. I could even allow you to study… under me.’

‘I’m afraid I can only pay you in yams and stories.’ The man closed his eyes, dreamily. ‘Did you know I once almost kissed the inventor of fire? Only, there was this bird, you see…’

Archimedes quirked an eyebrow. ‘You have a story about your seduction of Prometheus?’

‘No,’ replied the stranger, wistfully. ‘She wasn’t for me. Anyway, she liked women.’

Archimedes ignored the stranger’s spot of pronoun trouble. He spoke in a very odd manner all round – he wasn’t from Syracuse, that was for certain. ‘Then he didn’t know what was good for him.’ He cleaned up the traveller’s stomach. ‘You are a delightful young man. And what a voice!’

The man flushed again a little. ‘Oh. Hush.’

‘Will you stay, and allow me to tutor you a while?’ Archimedes finished cleaning the stranger, and put the basin to one side. ‘You can pay me with those sweet thighs of yours. And that sweet voice.’

The stranger smiled. ‘Okiedokie,’ he replied to the bemusement of Archimedes, who could only assume that to Okiedokie was a good thing.

‘Splendid,’ Archimedes beamed. ‘If you’re willing, you can start today. We should probably begin with Geometry.’

‘Geometry?’ echoed the stranger with a frown.

‘Yes. It’s a good, solid foundation for all of my… where are you going…?’

The stranger was up on his feet, gathering up his scattered clothes in a fit of pique.

‘Geometry,’ sneered the stranger. ‘That is not what I asked for! That is not Science! That’s math!’

‘But it’s…’

‘Good day to you, Archimedes of Syracuse,’ the stranger shouted at him as he stormed, naked, from his chamber. ‘Good day!’


	3. Three - Leonardo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Utter crack, I'm afraid.

Around the fourth attempt, Leonardo da Vinci began to suspect that the model was, in fact, unsketchable.

This was, of course, impossible. But he had tried four different times, from different angles, and despite there being nothing glaringly abnormal about the man’s physicality, somehow Leonardo just wasn’t able to sketch him accurately, which was, frankly, no less impossible than the man simply being unsketchable. 

Leonardo tried shifting the model’s pose… not a model, he reminded himself, an anti-model, an unsketchable enigma. The man had simply turned up, asking to see something called a ‘helicopter’, and offering to pay for the privilege with stories and yams. There had been something about the man – something remarkably unremarkable – something that attracted Leonardo’s eye that he couldn’t pinpoint. So he’d asked the stranger to pose for him in return for a peruse through his scientific manuscripts. He shifted the man’s thigh. The man had stripped for the sitting. Leonardo hadn’t actually asked him to do that, but it was fine.

He stood back and observed the stranger. His eye was drawn to the man’s groin, and not merely because it was his geometric centre. His manoeuvring of the man’s thigh seemed to have left the stranger in a state that was illegal – most illegal as a response to another man’s touch. Leonardo was only too aware of this delicate situation. He’d found himself in it many a time. Been charged for it, in fact. The stranger met eyes with him, his pupils wide and dark and inviting. He whispered ‘please. Please,’ he whispered, ‘show me your helicopter.’  
‘What the Hell is a helicopter?’

‘You know.’ He twirled his finger around in the air. ‘Spinny blade. Flies.’

Leonardo wracked his brains. ‘The air screw? I don’t even know if that works.’

The man smiled, briefly licking his bottom lip. ‘Oh, it would work all right. If only you found somebody who could work… your air screw. By which,’ he added, ‘I refer not only to your prototype flying machine but also to sex, if you hadn’t worked that out.’

Oh, fuck it. Fuck the law. You only live once, right? Leonardo had already pushed back his appointment with Borgia in order to try to draw this lovely stranger – he may as well just write the whole day off and devote it to enjoying a bit of enigmatic yet very willing arse.

‘Fine,’ said Leonardo, unfastening his breeches. ‘Drape yourself over something lovely, I’ll go and get the oil.’

‘Swell!’ Cried the man, confusingly.

-x-

Yes, this was definitely a very good idea. The stranger keened with every deep thrust of Leonardo’s cock, taking every rhythmic intrusion beautifully. His form, hunched on knees and elbows, oil glistened arse presented high for Leonardo to grab and knead and utterly debauch, was stunning. Leonardo tried to commit the curve of the other man’s muscles to memory, the suppleness of his skin, the bone structure beneath and the hair on the surface, hoping that at least he could retain something in his mind’s eye to commit to his art.

‘What are you thinking about?’ panted the man.

Adam. Eve. Angels. Lucifer. Everything.

‘The beauty of the male form,’ replied Leonardo.

‘Hmm.’ The stranger seemed unimpressed. ‘Would you mind talking Science to me?’

‘What do you m…’

There was a knock at the door below. Leonardo froze. Oh no! He’d been caught, again? Then a familiar voice swept away his panic with a warm wave of profound irritation.

‘Leonardo?’ called the voice. ‘I heard you found a new model today.’

‘Go away, Michelangelo! I’m working!’  
‘Heard he’s a very interesting looking man,’ continued the voice from below, unabated. ‘Indescribable, some have said…’

‘For the love of Mary,’ muttered Leonardo, ‘if he gets me caught, I swear. We all know what he’s been up to, after hours.’ Much louder, he shouted ‘Sod off!’

‘You really should learn to share, Leonardo.’

‘You know,’ added the stranger, quietly, ‘Michelangelo’s a pretty good engineer. I wouldn’t mind meeting him. He’s not sciencey enough to join in, but if he wants to watch, that’s OK with me.’

‘Oh, for the love of…’ Leonardo stopped, and tried to pull out.

‘What are you doing?’ whined the stranger, ‘I’m almost there!’

‘Oh… fine, just keep down.’ He grabbed the stranger’s waist and shuffled them both over to the open window above the door. Still inside the stranger, he groped for whatever projectiles he could grab, and flung them out through the window.

‘Go away Michelangelo!’ he shouted, hurling a paintbrush.

‘I am working!’ he added, throwing an apple.

‘I’m inventing a… er…’ he threw one of his shoes, which was met by a dull ‘ow’ in the street beyond.

‘Inventing a helicopter,’ he finished, triumphantly, causing the stranger to start writhing desperately underneath him, with cries of ‘yes, a helicopter’, ‘science me harder,’ and other barely comprehensible and highly incriminating exclamations. Leonardo clamped one hand over the stranger’s mouth and with the other hand helped him to reach his rapidly impending climax. The clench of the stranger’s orgasm was enough to also send Leonardo over the edge into quiet, bitten down ejaculation. The only sounds as he came were the muffled moans of the stranger, his own panting breaths and Michelangelo in the street below shouting ‘you bastard, that really hurt’.

-x-

‘Hmm!’ The stranger closed the folio of scientific manuscripts, with a satisfied sigh.

‘Worth it?’ Leonardo asked.

‘Of course.’ The stranger grinned. ‘And for you?’

‘Yes, very pleasant.’ Leonardo pushed his final failed attempt to sketch the man away from him, and turned his attention to one of his half finished paintings. ‘Even though this does mean I’m late, now.’

‘Late for what?’

‘Pretty much everything.’ Leonardo poked at the painting. ‘Haven’t finished this, for starters.’

‘You haven’t finished a lot of the works in here.’

Leonardo shrugged, still staring at the painting. ‘I lose interest.’

‘I see.’ There was a pause. ‘Well. Perhaps I should be on my way.’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you… do you think you could ever see yourself actually finishing that helicopter? Seeing if it works?’

‘The what?’

‘The air screw.’

‘Probably not.’

‘Oh. OK.’ There was another pause. ‘By the way, my name is Cecil Palmer.’

Leonardo didn’t turn from the painting. He picked up a nearby brush, hit by the urge to get the trees in the background just exactly right. ‘I’m afraid I don’t really care.’

‘I see. Well, good afternoon, Leonardo da Vinci. Good afternoon.’

But Leonardo was already painting.


	4. Four - Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of internalised homophobia here.

This was bad. This was utterly bad. He was definitely going to go to Hell in the next world, if not prison in this. This was sodomy. He was certain that since he and the other man were doing it to one another at the same time, they didn’t, as his partner in this depraved act had blithely assured him, ‘cancel each other out’.

Well – he was already going to Hell, another part of his conscious reasoned, for so much more than this. Why, the very day he’d agreed to accompany FitzRoy on his trip around the world had also been the start of his unwitting journey towards the pits of the damned, in more ways than one. 

Ah, FitzRoy. Charles cast his mind back. There had been some miserable, cold and uncomfortable nights on that long voyage that had been comforted considerably by the tender warmth of FitzRoy. He’d told himself then that it had just been the trip – the loneliness, the need for another human being’s touch… and yet, here he was in London, an eligible bachelor, with plenty of money to spend on ladies of the night if he so wished, and what was he doing? He had his cock thrust deep in to the mouth of another man – a man he didn’t even know – and was, in turn, sucking on the cock of the stranger who was stretched out upside down on top of him.

The stranger was a young American whom Charles guessed to be aged around his early twenties, but who, when Charles had asked, had laughed and wagged his finger and stated ‘oh, I’m a little older than that, I think.’ When Charles had joined in the fun and asked how much older, the American had frowned, seemingly perplexed, and told him ‘I don’t know.’

The American’s name was Palmer and was, he professed, extremely interested in Science. Charles had asked Palmer which field he specialised in, and Palmer had simply replied ‘Science’, most coquettishly. It was then that Charles had realised the true nature of Palmer’s interest – that and the fact that when he’d found him, he’d been draped over Babbage, who simply hadn’t known what to do with himself. Charles had led Palmer off, for drinks and a long talk about his studies in Geology, for which Babbage was clearly grateful, and also for which Palmer insisted on offering Charles by way of thanks several Yams and a delightful shaggy dog story about getting romantically spurned by Sir Isaac Newton.

It had been around the point that Palmer had started gazing wistfully into the middle distance sighing ‘I was crazy about him, but all he wanted to do was to try to turn stuff into gold, so I said to him, I said “Isaac, it’s trying to turn stuff into gold or me”…’ that Charles decided that he had to have this young American. There was something strange about him. Something that Charles couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint. It wasn’t merely the emotional fervour with which he recounted a tale that couldn’t possibly be true – of a passionate encounter with a man who had been dead for over 100 years – but that certainly contributed towards the general air of strangeness about him.

The hot, wet mouth around his root was bringing him closer and closer, as was the feel of the lovely staff thrusting into his own mouth. He’d never fornicated like this before – never ever. FitzRoy had not been fond of using the mouth, and it wasn’t quite the same with women. He dug his fingernails into Palmer’s buttocks, thrusting above his head, as he shuddered towards release.

He was going to Hell anyway. Palmer had to know that, having heard what Charles had learned. His findings made a mockery of the Holy Bible! It was bad, it was all so bad. Charles came hard into Palmer’s mouth – Palmer swallowing his seed like a well paid whore. Palmer ejaculated soon after. Surprised and rather revolted by the taste and consistency, Charles spat into his kerchief, and wiped his mouth. 

Palmer crawled, sighing, smiling, stinking of male sex, up to face Charles.

‘Tell me more’, murmured the American, stroking Charles’ face with his terrible hands. ‘Tell me more about your incredible journey. Did you stop off at Luftnarp at any point? I keep meaning to travel there myself, perhaps you could show me some interesting specimens I should watch out for while I’m there.’

‘Are you a Cecily?’

‘Cecil,’ smiled Palmer.

Charles eyed him, sternly. ‘I meant, are you a whore?’

‘No! What?’ Palmer sat back, clearly offended. 

Offensive, perhaps, but Charles needed to be sure. Palmer had been so keen. So – there was no money to exchange hands, but that only made this all the more difficult. ‘I intend to marry you know, Palmer.’ 

‘Oh!’ 

‘My cousin, Emma,’ added Charles. 

‘Cousin…?’ echoed Palmer, actually having the nerve to pull a face at the concept of such a union. After what he’d just had Charles do? How dare he!

‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘Obviously I shan’t tell anybody about this, I trust you will not either, it would break her heart and ruin me if it ever got out.’

‘Oh,’ exclaimed Palmer again, even more wounded than before. ‘But I would never… if I knew you were engaged… why didn’t you tell me?’

Because he still hadn’t made up his mind. Because perhaps he wouldn’t. Because Palmer had to know, surely, that there couldn’t be anything between them, not really… he had to have known that right from the start, right?

‘You’re quite sure there’s to be no payment?’

‘I… Eww!’ Palmer got out of the bed and started finding his clothes, angrily. ‘You’re even worse than Isaac. Good grief, Charles Darwin. Good grief!’

Charles turned from him, and didn’t reply or even look at him again until he left, slamming the door. Yes. He was going to Hell.


	5. Five - Guglielmo

Five – Guglielmo

Guglielmo Marconi was king of the world. Well – that was possibly going a little far. Marquis – he was Marquis of Marconi – literally. And the father of radio, that’s what they said. The toast of both England and Italy, and with plans in hand to woo America. Women threw themselves at him. He’d find one to marry in time, he was sure, but for now he was perfectly happy, free and single and very cheerfully riding an enthusiastic American tourist. A boy for him tonight… no, not a boy, a man. He was… he had to be… Guglielmo would guess that he was somewhere between 20 and 35. Maybe. Give or take a few… er. He was a sexy one though, this American. His hair was… there. And his eyes were… present. The American definitely had eyes, in the usual places, and they were… nice. Alluring. Excitable. Just, don’t ask Guglielmo what colour they were.

This much Guglielmo could tell about the man writhing beneath him:  
He was a man, a tourist from America.  
He was not tall, he was not short, he was not fat, he was not thin.  
He was wearing a tie. Around his mouth. He was also wearing handcuffs that kept him in the desk. He had insisted on a ‘Safety Hand Gesture’ that Guglielmo was sure he had not yet made.  
He called himself Cecil Palmer.  
He loved Guglielmo’s invention. Really, REALLY loved it. Went quite appealingly giddy at Guglielmo’s explanation of it, in fact.  
He had a backpack full of Yams.  
He had a lot of amusing and erotic shaggy dog stories, about getting fucked by the likes of Archimedes and Da Vinci and Darwin – and sadder tales, about sexual rejection at the hands of Newton, Babbage and, most recently, Tesla.   
He was clearly more at ease as a bottom, but Guglielmo’s house, Guglielmo’s rules. The dildo was just going to have to suffice for strange Cecil while Guglielmo rode him like Napoleon into battle. 

Guglielmo shifted his position slightly until the lovely, compliant cock in his arse rubbed properly against his sweet spot. Yes, this was the life! He began stroking himself to completion. God, he hoped all of America would be as good as this little taster.

He came, on the man’s stomach, rubbing it in to the skin and to cling to the short hairs on his belly. He looked down at the man, still squirming away.

‘You all right?’

The American nodded.

‘Need a little help down there?’

Strange Cecil looked unsure. Guglielmo reached behind himself and started toying with the dildo he’d inserted in to his partner’s arse earlier. He began thrusting it shallowly into Cecil, adding a little twist at the end, since Cecil had moaned so prettily into the tie the first time he’d tried. It took a little longer than Guglielmo had been expecting – frankly, he was rather oversensitive and even a little bored by the time he got that shudder of release from Cecil he’d been waiting for, and was finally able to roll off him, and remove the tie and cuffs.

‘I don’t often…’ managed Cecil, apologetically, before changing tack with a more upbeat tone, ‘I mean, wow, I did a lot of new things today. Thank you.’

Guglielmo lit up a cigarette. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘So tell me about where you come from,’ he said at the same time as Cecil said ‘so tell me more about your radio’.

They laughed awkwardly for a second, but Guglielmo decided to push on ahead. ‘You say you come from the American desert.’

‘Oh! Yes. I come from a great little desert town, there the men are men, where the women are women, where those who do not assign themselves either of these labels are loved for who they are…’ his gaze became rather far-off and milky.

‘Where strange lights glow,’ he continued, ‘and strange voices sing from mouths in the sky where there should only be air or possibly a bird. Where every day could be our last, or our first, or a dream that somebody else is having. Love like you’ve been hurt by a shady military organisation and now need a little tender relief, dance like everybody’s watching. Because they are. They’re always watching. Sing like your every sound is being recorded for purposes that you should hope never become clear. Welcome to Night Vale.’

‘Record you?’ asked Guglielmo. ‘On a phonograph, you mean?’

Cecil shrugged. ‘I guess. I asked once, they electrocuted me and shouted that they asked the questions around those parts.’

‘Who?’ 

‘The Sheriff’s secret police.’

Guglielmo’s eyes widened. ‘Sounds… Fascistic.’

‘It’s a little more complicated than that…’

‘Oh, my.’ Guglielmo’s face lit up. ‘How wonderful! I’d love to visit!’

‘People don’t take all that kindly to strangers, in Night Vale…’

‘This gets better and better,’ crowed Guglielmo, overjoyed.

Cecil looked at his face, concerned. ‘And anyway, I don’t think I’m quite done with Europe yet. I still have a few years left before I catch up with… uh…’ he changed tack brightly again. ‘And besides, I still need to see Franchia!’

‘But you can introduce me to…’

‘Franchia, though.’

‘Come along.’ Guglielmo playfully tweaked at one of Cecil’s nipples. ‘I showed you my radio, fair’s fair. You show me your funny little functioning fascist town.’

‘But Franchia,’ smiled Cecil, apologetically.

Guglielmo got up and threw on his robe. ‘This isn’t over,’ he grinned, and went to make coffee.

When he came back with two cups, the window was open and Cecil was gone.

Fucking Franchia!

He’d seek this desert town out when he went to America anyway. And even if he wasn’t able to find it… well, fascism would have its day soon, he was sure of it. Right here in Europe, perhaps. Lovely fascism.

He poured the extra cup of coffee down the drain.


End file.
